Fic: FF7 roleplaying intro
FF7 roleplaying intro. R for swearing. Post-AC.
With the Geostigma gone, Rufus was back to being a son of a bitch. Not that he ceased being one while he had it, but he was slightly less of one when he had to be pushed around in a wheelchair. (People were half right when they whispered that the wheelchair was just a facade.) And times when the fever got too high, or he was vomiting his innards onto Tseng's immaculate shoes, it understandably got beyond his power to keep up the mysterious-bastard-in-a-white-sheet front.
But now the wheelchair had been donated to the WRO (Rude amused himself for a minute imagining which of Reeve's invalids would have the privilege of sitting where Rufus Shinra's backside had once touched) and the sheet had been burned ceremonially, for which Reno could be safely blamed, and now Mr. President was back in business. He'd even somehow procured what looked like Dark Nation's slightly gangly son within the last 72 hours of being healed, though Shiva only knew how he'd found the creature. Rude hadn't even known two animals of that breed existed on the planet.
He shifted slightly - it'd been three hours since he'd gone on guard duty, and Reno had been due to relieve him fifteen minutes ago. Behind the door, voices murmured and shouted as Rufus and a couple of investors negotiated whatever backroom deals they thought they could get away with. Rufus might've been all about the repentant gestures and charitable contributions these days, but that didn't mean he didn't have an eye on rebuilding Shinra either. And anyway, even donations meant the money to donate had to come from somewhere. They could live on old man Shinra's decades-old caches only so long.
In not so many words, routine shit. But today the two smarmy business-suited schmucks had looked exceptionally twitchy as they pulled up to the Healin lodge three hours ago, and Tseng, up in the surveillance room, had made some cryptic comments over Rude's earpiece. Comments that reminded him unpleasantly of similar static-y transmissions during the old AVALANCHE days. Then Tseng apparently received some urgent message and abruptly helicoptered off to Junon, Elena in tow, leaving Rude in a somewhat fouler mood than before. It didn't show on his face, but if his demeanor while checking in the two visitors had been a little more intimidating and he'd been a little more forceful than necessary frisking them for weapons, they made no mention of it except to cast a few nervous glances his way when they were finally permitted into the conference room.
And now Reno was twenty-five minutes late. Where the hell was the little bastard?
With the Geostigma gone, Rufus was back to being a son of a bitch. Not that he ceased being one while he had it, but he was slightly less of one when he had to be pushed around in a wheelchair. (People were half right when they whispered that the wheelchair was just a facade.) And times when the fever got too high, or he was vomiting his innards onto Tseng's immaculate shoes, it understandably got beyond his power to keep up the mysterious-bastard-in-a-white-sheet front.
But now the wheelchair had been donated to the WRO (Rude amused himself for a minute imagining which of Reeve's invalids would have the privilege of sitting where Rufus Shinra's backside had once touched) and the sheet had been burned ceremonially, for which Reno could be safely blamed, and now Mr. President was back in business. He'd even somehow procured what looked like Dark Nation's slightly gangly son within the last 72 hours of being healed, though Shiva only knew how he'd found the creature. Rude hadn't even known two animals of that breed existed on the planet.
He shifted slightly - it'd been three hours since he'd gone on guard duty, and Reno had been due to relieve him fifteen minutes ago. Behind the door, voices murmured and shouted as Rufus and a couple of investors negotiated whatever backroom deals they thought they could get away with. Rufus might've been all about the repentant gestures and charitable contributions these days, but that didn't mean he didn't have an eye on rebuilding Shinra either. And anyway, even donations meant the money to donate had to come from somewhere. They could live on old man Shinra's decades-old caches only so long.
In not so many words, routine shit. But today the two smarmy business-suited schmucks had looked exceptionally twitchy as they pulled up to the Healin lodge three hours ago, and Tseng, up in the surveillance room, had made some cryptic comments over Rude's earpiece. Comments that reminded him unpleasantly of similar static-y transmissions during the old AVALANCHE days. Then Tseng apparently received some urgent message and abruptly helicoptered off to Junon, Elena in tow, leaving Rude in a somewhat fouler mood than before. It didn't show on his face, but if his demeanor while checking in the two visitors had been a little more intimidating and he'd been a little more forceful than necessary frisking them for weapons, they made no mention of it except to cast a few nervous glances his way when they were finally permitted into the conference room.
And now Reno was twenty-five minutes late. Where the hell was the little bastard?